


Black Pearls

by Val_Creative



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Brothers, Canon - Movie, Family, Friendship, Gen, Gift Giving, Hugs, Humor, Introspection, Light Angst, Little Sisters, Necklaces, POV Alternating, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:55:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26866279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Sherlock visits Enola at Ferndell Hall with a gift.
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 13
Kudos: 229
Collections: Writing Rainbow Black





	Black Pearls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionessvalenti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/gifts).



*

Coming home to Ferndell Hall ushers in a sense of defeat. Rather than a victory.

Enola broods in the library, slumping over a table cross-legged, flipping idly through the pages of Susan Ferrier and Johann David Wyss. She sweeps the fireplace ashes. Enola plays one man—"one _woman_ ," Enola corrects out loud to you, smirking—tennis in the parlor, hitting an old, dusty ball with her racquet against the wall and then shattering the nearby glass-lantern. 

She dashes around the chickens in the morning, whistling between her teeth and slapping her knees as Mrs. Lane holds open their pen. There's no loyal hound to lead them to where they need to be. Enola hasn't the faintest on how to properly train one.

Her brothers appear by carriage, unloading themselves and arguing softly to each other.

Enola unpins her hair, shaking out her glossy, brown curls and trotting through the mud to greet them. Sherlock has already vanished inside. Enola's lips form into a slight pout. Mycroft makes a hideously snorting noise, tapping his cane against Enola's leather lace up boot.

"I cannot to do anything right, according to Mycroft," Enola mutters, glancing down and then up. She's sure you agree.

Mycroft orders her inside, bellowing out for Mrs. Lane to scrub her down and change Enola into something less…

_Improper._

That's all she seems to be. Wild, opinionated, and a burden upon their name.

*

Enola hums to herself, wandering the upstairs floor and tinkling the piano keys in her fine lace gloves. The sound dulled. She holds the thin stack of books on top of her head with her other hand. Balance and poise. That's what a young lady embodies.

Or so says _Mycroft_.

It's been a few days since his and Sherlock's arrival. "I've hardly seen my other brother," Enola says sullenly, eyeing you.

"Enola," Sherlock booms out, rapping his knuckles against the door-frame and entering. It takes him a moment to notice Enola in her full-bodied, white petticoat slip and the long, cotton muslin bloomers. His lips twitch. "Forgive me. I should have waited."

"It's quite alright," Enola says. Her expression relaxed and bright. "You have seen me covered in blood now. That's much worse."

She grabs Mother's woolen, cream-colored shawl, draping herself. Her perfume lingers still. Enola cannot bear to wash it out. Sherlock nods in consideration. One of his hands lodge deep in a waistcoat-pocket. Enola's attention draws there.

"Pig's blood."

He's wearing a grey frock coat and the double-breasted waistcoat. The hue so vibrantly, iridescently blue.

"That being said… you shouldn't have provoked the butcher's boy," Sherlock announces. It's less of a gentle and patient scolding than him stating the obvious to her. Enola rolls her eyes. Her bare feet nudge aside the flowers scattered about.

"That scoundrel had no right to accuse me of _thieving_ ," she argues. "I _paid_ for the roast."

"You called him a bespawler."

Enola turns to no-one particular, besides you listening intently, and rolls her eyes again with a great, heaving sigh.

"I fail to see the point," she grumbles.

Sherlock clears his throat. "Would you turn yourself around for a moment?" he asks.

Enola narrows her eyes.

"I don't understand," she says in mild suspicion. "What are you playing at, Sherlock?"

"Please."

It's unusual for him to behave so apprehensively. Enola has witnessed this, and his genuine anger, and the playful and haughty emotions on Sherlock's face when they sit together under Father's favourite oak tree, reclining in the grass and naming the insects passing by. How his expression softens into a smile when he recognises her. Enola longs for that more than anything.

She surprises herself by turning as bid, facing the window.

"During my last case in the French Polynesian isles, I discovered a woman faked her own death in order to escape a cult. Her husband was the leader. She needed protection and no-one could offer it to her." Sherlock's voice rumbles. "I wished her well."

Enola's mouth drops open. 

"You let everyone— _and_ the husband—think you didn't solve the mystery," she murmurs, awestruck. "Is she safe, Sherlock?"

A low, lordly laugh. It's only one Enola understands to be Sherlock. "She will be as long she remains far away from her homeland." Enola hears a muted snap of velvet from behind her. "I insisted against it but she did thank me generously."

In the window's reflection, Enola observes as Sherlock reaches around her shoulders.

She can feel his warm fingers out of reach to the expose, pale skin of Enola's collar. Sherlock presses a necklace to Enola's throat, holding the strand-ends apart. Enola waits for him to clinch them together. She touches over the gigantic pearls. Their colour dark and shimmery as water.

"What do you know about black pearls, Enola?"  
  
"Eve's tears created white pearls and Adam's tears created black pearls when they left the Garden," Enola recites. "Adam shed less tears than Eve because men had more control over their emotions—so that's why black pearls are rare in our existence." She wrinkles her nose. "Which is utter nonsense. Mother said that Father cried more than her."

"Black pearls can be a symbol of protection to others." Sherlock tucks the velvet casing back into his waistcoat pocket. "Pearls are typically given to young woman as a sign of accomplishment," he murmurs. "For when she's proven herself worthy."

A bloom of heat flushes to Enola's cheeks. Her pulse races.

"Does that mean…?" She spins on her heel to face him. Her petticoat slip flutters at her ankles. "More than anything, I should like to go on an adventure with Sherlock, and solve the mystery _before_ he does," Enola whispers in pure glee to you.

Sherlock's lips twitch again.

"You'll need to change into something more suitable for the train. I do not wish to incur Mycroft's wrath further."

Enola gasps, wide-eyed, slamming her hands over her mouth to prevent a joyful (and revealing) scream. She leaps into Sherlock's arms, hugging him fiercely and not minding that Sherlock groans in protest, awkwardly thumping her back. 

They'll have to escape the same way Enola did at the beginning of her journey.

"Remember to always start at the beginning," Enola says, leaning her chin on Sherlock, "until you reach the ending."

You think so, too.

*


End file.
